Joyful Perplexion

Text: Luke 24:1-12
Other texts: Isaiah 65:17-25

We know a lot. We know how the sun works, about how materials are different from one another, about the chemistry of cooking, about how proteins are encoded in a cell. We know how old the universe is and how many stars are in it.

And we know next to nothing. For every fact there are countless mysteries. For every rule of thumb, there are countless hidden details.

Our broad knowledge and broader ignorance combine in a peculiar recipe to yield a confident certainty. We are like the map-makers in the 15th century, just before the New World was discovered by Europeans. We know a lot about some things, and we are confident that the things we do not know are more of the same. Not all the territories are mapped, but at least we know, we think, where the unmapped territories are. We know the boundaries of knowledge. We are confident that with time and work what is unknown will be known. We do not know all there is to know, but we do know what kinds of things that there are to know.

When Mary, and Joanna, and Mary the mother of James came to the tomb where Jesus had been laid, they were perplexed. They were, the word means, at a loss, like map-makers who found unknown realms. Not just surprised at what they saw, but without resources to understand it. Thrown for a loop.

When they came back from the tomb and tried to explain it to the other disciples, no one believed them. They, the others, thought the women to be telling an idle tale, it says, as if it were a made-up story. But the meaning in the passage is even harsher. The disciples thought the women were delirious. And Peter was flabbergasted.

They were not alone. When Jesus then appeared to his followers, no one recognized him. His return to their lives was not like the return of a long-lost friend or like a soldier returning from war to greet his or her family. No one was waiting to embrace him and welcome him home. If we were to come back tonight to hear the readings specified for Easter evening, we’d hear about how two disciples meet Jesus on the road to Emmaus but do not know who he is. And in the Gospel of John, which is an alternative reading for this morning, we’d hear about how Mary mistakes Jesus for a gardener. Either Jesus was very different, or they were very unable to grasp that it was him.

We live in a realm of expectations. We believe the past to be a good predictor of the future. That is not surprising, for we are pattern-detecting creatures. We survive because we are good at anticipating what will happen. Furthermore, we create structures and systems—like traditions and ritual—that help us do that better. The Passion story that we heard last week (Sunday and again on Friday) is the story of those structures coming up against something incomprehensible. No one can understand why Jesus does not make claims for himself, or defend himself, or declare who he really is. And he tells them that his kingdom is not from this world.

When Mary and Joanna and Mary come to the tomb, the angel asks them why they come looking for the living among the dead. It is a trick question. They are looking among the dead because they had seen Jesus die. Unlike the other disciples, who had scattered, these women had been eye witnesses to his death. They had come looking for Jesus among the dead because Jesus had been dead. They expected that once people are crucified, they must be prepared for burial and buried. It is right to do that. It is how things go. It was surprising that Jesus is not there. It is not surprising that the three women and the other disciples are incredulous.

We cannot, as they could not, explain this event by thinking that Jesus did not die. He did. That’s what our faith teaches us. He was not faking it. Not taking refuge from death behind his divinity. Jesus died and was buried, as we say in the creed. Jesus was as dead as any creature on this earth can be. Jesus was human. Humans die. Jesus rose from the dead. That tells us something about humans.

But it also tells us something about the universe. We celebrate in the resurrection of Jesus a revelation of an unexpected cosmos. Jesus reveals that there is something that is beyond the boundaries of what was knowable. The map-makers had to add a new land. The resurrection of Jesus reveals to each of us uncharted territory. We make discoveries. For some, in it we discover a kind of timelessness, for others the feeble power of death, for others a never-subsiding force of life. The list is long. Because for each of you, perhaps, something different is revealed. Jesus rises from death. Christians are adamant about the meaning of that. Only they do not all agree about what the meaning is. Just that it does mean something important.

We celebrate because we realize that the boundaries about which we were so certain are no boundaries at all. It is relieving to find that we know so little. We find that our convictions of what is possible are misplaced. We have no idea what is possible.

Isaiah features so strongly during Holy Week and Easter because the prophet delights so much in creation and is so confident about its renewal. I am about to create a new Jerusalem as a joy, God says. No more will people weep, no more will they cry in distress, no more will children die young or old men and women succumb before their time. These are unbelievable hopes. But they are not unrealistic.

The business of the church is to pray continually that the world be renewed, that there be a new earth, as Isaiah says. And furthermore—and maybe more important—to proclaim that such prayer is not futile. Even better, that it is likely to be fruitful.

We celebrate because we see that we do not have to continue in the same patterns that seem to have ruled our lives and the life of the world. If insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results, then by that definition the world seems to be insane. But Jesus has revealed that it does not have to be that way.

The disciples are perplexed. But it does not so much take faith or courage or piety to believe that God has revealed something new. It takes imagination and humility. In the face of our expectations, God has in the resurrection of Jesus shown a willingness to surprise us.

As we are moved into the future, it is freeing, comforting, and exhilarating to learn that there are no boundaries to what is can happen.

Really Jesus

Text: Luke 22:14–23:56
Other texts: Luke 19:28–40

In the next few days we will hear, read, sing about, and tell each other the essential story of Christianity: Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem and his subsequent trial, death, and resurrection. The story dominates the Gospels, taking up about a third of each. It is a story that we retell every Sunday. We recap it in the Eucharistic prayer. We summarize it in the creed. These tiny, brief reminders—the whole story in a phrase: suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried—refer our hearts back to the complete version of this Holy Week story.

Today preachers are advised by the liturgical instructions to keep it short, or to say nothing at all. But the weird doubly-named Sunday begs some discussion.

Palm Sunday just started with a grand parade celebrating the hope of the crowds as Jesus comes into the center of power in Israel: Jerusalem. They see in him the prophesied king. Praising God—God’s work—for the deeds of power they have seen in the life so far of Jesus. They cannot contain their enthusiasm, and if they had been able to keep silent, the stones would shout out. Yet in a moment, in the time it takes to say these few “keep it short” words, we will hear of sadness, betrayal, cowardice, and death.

It seems odd. It is odd. It mashes together two events which are separate in the Bible into one liturgical container. It is like a space warp, where one can travel from one place to the other without traversing the intervening route. If you come to church this week on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday the transition will be a little slower and smoother, but even so, we skip over some important ground. It is disorienting. How could the Jesus of the triumphal procession become seemingly in an instant the Jesus of the cross?

It is the same Jesus. In many ways, Jesus was not just a nice guy who healed people and turned water to wine. He was a trouble-maker by design. He ate with the wrong people, he spoke up when he shouldn’t have, he mocked those in authority, he told everyone to love their enemies, to sell what they owned and give it all to the poor. He told parables that made people ashamed of themselves. He predicted in public the fall of the main institution in Israel, and generally made a fuss. Jesus made people angry.

He was not brought to trial because he was lovable. The march on Jerusalem was a sign to the people in power: keep a close eye on this guy. And the next thing you know—the next verses in the chapters that were warped out, Jesus is agitating people with stories of the fall of Jerusalem—“your enemies,” he warns the city, “… will crush you to the ground, you and your children.” And after that he causes a riot in the Temple over the money-changers. Then he condemns the priests. And so it goes.

In spite of what we sometimes tell ourselves, people rarely do bad things because the people are bad and they just hate the good. They do bad things because they are scared. They are afraid that they will suffer. Or they think that what they love is good, and that the good will suffer. Jesus was scary to some people. They were afraid of Jesus. They had the authority and the power to bring him to trial and condemn him to death. And they did.

We often speak about the innocence of Jesus. In the Gospel of Luke especially, whose version of the Passion we are about to hear, everyone proclaims his innocence: Pilate and Herod, notably.

But we need to be cautious about thinking that the actions of Jesus had nothing to do with his death on the cross. Jesus is not just an object in some divine project, like a piece in a game. What he, Jesus, does makes a difference in what happens. And neither is Jesus just a bundle of divine goodness that makes people’s response to him inexplicable. Jesus is human as well as divine. The human world responds to his human actions in a human way.

This story is a divine story of salvation history and of God’s intervention in the world. We know that because we know how the story turns out and because we have had millennia to think hard about it.

And the story is a human story of a particular person, Jesus, in particular circumstances, in glory and in sorrow, Palms and Passion. We know that because we see it in the words—including those in Luke that we are about to hear—the words and actions of the people who meet, hate, love, follow, or crucify him.

And because we know that we strive to follow this divine and human person who lived 2000 years ago and yet who remains in our lives today, the story is our story.

It is all one singular story.

Now let us say, and sing, and tell it to each other.

Risky Love

Text: John 12:1-8

This story we just heard in John appears in all four Gospels, which is unusual. There are variations, of course. But the plot is mostly the same.

In all four, a woman—Mary in our case—anoints Jesus. She uses a jar—alabaster, except in John—of very expensive perfume. She pours the whole thing on Jesus—his head according to Mark and Matthew, his feet according to Luke and John. In all versions, there is someone in the crowd who finds the whole thing offensive and complains to Jesus. And in every case, Jesus defends what the woman has done.

In John, the version we just heard, the story appears right after Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, which is the last of the so-called “signs” of Jesus (the first was when Jesus turned the water to wine at Cana). This puts the story at the exact center of the Gospel. It is on the hinge of the story of Jesus. It connects the miraculous work of Jesus in the world with the events of his trial and execution—the Passion of Christ.

This pivot in the story is especially clear today, where the scene is shared by Lazarus, whom Jesus just raised from the dead, with Judas, who is just about to hand Jesus over to his fate. Before this moment, Jesus is (mostly) active in the world. After this moment, Jesus is (mostly) acted upon by the world. He goes from here to his death: the anointing is, Jesus says, for his burial.

It is possible to look at this story as a lesson in extreme generosity. The perfume is costly. At 300 denarii, it cost about a typical year’s salary, or in our terms about $30,000 [median income per capita in the US]. Who do you know who gives gifts worth $30,000? Who gives them for something that vanishes in an instant? Imagine your best friend taking you out to a restaurant and spending $30,000 on a meal. In many ways, it is absurd.

At least that is how the bystanders feel about it. In this version in John, it is Judas who complains. In the other stories, it is the Pharisees, or the disciples, or those present. Their suggestion that the woman should have sold the perfume and given the proceeds to the poor sounds like hypocritical whining. What is the chance that they themselves gave to the poor the day before, or will the day after?

Nonetheless, their shock is understandable. It does seem like a waste, like the $30,000 meal. Even hypocrites and thieves—as John calls Judas—are sometimes right: that money could have been used to feed the poor. Perhaps you would have been as offended as Judas was.

This story seems larger than life. It is exaggerated. A nice domestic scene—friends at a meal—turns bizarre. Why the huge expense? Why now? Why the juxtaposition of Lazarus and Judas? It occupies a strategic position in John. It seems therefore less like an historical episode and more like a parable. And like all parables, strange on purpose.

There is a conflict in the parable that teaches us something. There is a conflict between Mary and Judas. But the costly perfume distracts us. The conflict is not between generosity and stinginess. Rather, it is between risk and prudence.

Judas, and the Pharisees in the other Gospels, are no doubt trying to speak reasonably. Judas does not argue that spending the money is bad in itself, but only bad in its use. They are not denouncing—or praising—generosity. They do not dispute the generosity of Mary, only her wisdom. They think that Mary is foolish. But Jesus says she is not. Jesus is taking sides here. And the side he takes is Mary’s.

The crabbiness of Judas and the others is a condemnation of Mary. So Jesus tells them to stop it. When Jesus says: Leave her alone!, he uses the word usually translated as “forgive.” Give her a break, Jesus says. Mary knows she is being extravagant. It is deliberate. Her crazy generosity is only possible because she is not intimidated.

There is a certain amount—probably a lot—of risk in loving someone. I do not mean romantic or sentimental love, though I know it applies there, too. But rather agape—Christian love, or unearned love for all people, love-your-neighbor kind of love. Loving someone requires slack. Room for error and mistake-making, even big mistakes. It requires a willingness to be embarrassed and to seem foolish. To appear idiotic.

When we refuse to take risks in love then we hold back, keep things in reserve, try to control things we have no right—and usually no ability—to control.

It is forgiveness that lets us take risks. In this way, love and forgiveness are inseparable partners. Without forgiveness there is no room for love. If we are afraid that we will not be forgiven, we are paralyzed. If we are unwilling to forgive, we are captive.

Judas argues for a sensible and careful approach. He no doubt thinks practically, plans things out, considers the consequences. All good and necessary things to do.

But Mary has what someone called a “sumptuousness of spirit,” a quality that she shares with all saints—that is, people we admire because they seem to have an excessive store of compassion and generosity. And are eager to spend it rashly. There is room for more Marys.

The Gospel of John is known for its proclaiming the gift of abundant life that comes through Christ. Meaning life not only after death but in the here and now. Jesus creates abundance. He changes water to an abundance of wine. He feeds 5000 people with an abundance of bread and fish. He promises an end to thirst and hunger.

When Mary’s critics worry about waste of resources, they are speaking from scarcity. They see what they do not have, or what they fear they might not have, or what they may lose.

Though we may fret about scarcity, we long for a life of abundance. But what is the measure of an abundant life? Will we know when we have achieved it? How will we know when we have enough? More than enough? To what do we compare our lives? When do we stop worrying about scarcity, about having too little?

Is it when we feel satisfied? When we feel safe and secure? Is it when we have a sufficient surplus, a sufficient cushion against unexpected hardship? Will there ever be such a time?

Or is abundant life rather when we can joyfully be risky in our generosity? When we are satisfied with our daily bread? When we do not worry whether someone else has more than we? And perhaps when instead we can worry that someone else does not have enough?

Leave her alone! says Jesus. This is as much a command as the Maundy Thursday command to love one another. As much as Jesus’ command to Peter: “feed my sheep!”

There are a lot of voices commanding us to be prudent, restrained, and effective. But the voice of Jesus is not one of them.

Not Fair

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

It is easy to see ourselves in this story in Luke, which we commonly call the story of the prodigal son.

We have all been stupid as the younger son was, or nearly so, from time to time. All of us have done things which we have regretted, hurt ourselves and hurt others, and have needed to be and have wished to be forgiven. One reason the mural up here draws our attention is that we know in our hearts what it is like to be lost and to have someone come find us, to hope that God will come find us, to bring us home even when we have messed up.

We have all been in the shoes of the father, who has been sinned against, who perhaps wishes not to forgive. We would rather hold a grudge, to harbor resentments, to withdraw and withhold affection. But at the same time are moved to forgive others because, in spite of everything, we love them.

We have all been like the older brother, bitter because someone went unpunished when they deserved to be, or worse went rewarded for evils they have done. When we ourselves have been slighted or ignored even though we have worked hard and faithfully, done what was expected and required.

It is a powerful story. But even so, it is not intended to be a soap opera. It is not intended to be an allegory. Though it compels us to see ourselves in it, it is a parable, and like all parables, its intent is to shock us into thinking in a new way. It is to make us understand something new about God.

You will notice that the reading has a few verses from the beginning of chapter 15 before it leaps ahead to today’s story. It does that because we need to remember the context in which this story is told in Luke. It is part of a long response by Jesus to the grumbling of the Pharisees, who are unhappy that Jesus hangs around and eats with sinners. They do not approve. In the face of their disapproval, Jesus tells three parables.

All three parables have structures and themes in common. All three are about something being lost. All three are about the lost thing being found. All three are about the great rejoicing that results.

The first parable is about a lost sheep. This is the parable that our altarpiece here illustrates. A shepherd leaves behind ninety-nine sheep to go off searching for one lost sheep. Finding the sheep, the shepherd says “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.” And he throws a party.

The second parable is about a lost coin. A woman loses one coin out of ten. She sweeps and cleans and hunts until she finds the coin, then saying “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.” And she throws a party.

And the third parable is about the family of the prodigal—prodigal, meaning wasteful or extravagant—the prodigal son, who leaves his home and family. And when he returns, the father says: “This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” And he throws a party.

On the face of it, there is a simple message here. A coin is lost, a sheep is lost, a man is lost. The three are found. People gather to celebrate.

We might conclude from this that God is good. That God finds us when we are lost sinners. The angels in heaven rejoice, it says, when that happens. That is a good and true message. But while that seems to be all we can say about the coin and the sheep, there is something else going on with the father and his two sons.

Unlike coins and maybe unlike sheep, people live in complicated relationships. Siblings fight and yet are true to one another, are jealous and yet admire each other. Bosses and colleagues compete and yet remain in fellowship. When the young son gets his inheritance early and then squanders it all, it means more than he is lost like the coin or sheep are lost. He has embarrassed himself and his father and brother, has hurt them, has made them angry. Yet at the same time they grieve for him.

We are subject to social expectations and conventions. Good should be rewarded. Bad should be punished. People should respect rules and manners and what is proper.

The younger brother violates these expectations and conventions. By asking for his inheritance early, he insults his father. It is as if he were to say “you are dead to me.” By making his father divide the property, he weakens the family’s land holdings in a culture where ancestral land was considered a gift from God.

Even so, if this story were only about the young son and his father, it would still be a lot like the coin and the sheep, only more compelling because it is people and culture we are talking about and therefore more moving. It would be a story of a young man who did a really stupid and hurtful thing. He was ashamed of himself. He was afraid to come home and face his father. But in the end, he did anyway. His father still loved him, as fathers often do, and felt bad for him, and gave him a big hug. Then they had a big party. And probably, on the next day, they sat down for a little talk. It would be a story of compassion.

But the presence of the older brother in the story changes this all. It becomes a story of justice. It is no longer just a lost soul, found. There has been collateral damage. Another person has been wounded. If the father forgives the younger son, then what does that mean for the older son, the one who has remained loyal? He and we want to know. Is it fair to the older son?

If this is about God, as the parables always are, then it seems the story is telling us more than that God is compassionate and loving. God is loving. But God is not fair. The father loves both sons, but the father is not fair. Neither son gets what he deserves.

Parables, like these ones, are meant to shock us. The people in these do weird things, unreasonable things, imprudent things. Who would leave ninety-nine sheep to fend for themselves? Who would welcome such a scoundrel?

The force of God’s grace and love is hard to believe. Sometimes hard to take. Sometimes it offends us. Those who first heard the parable would have been offended by it. Some of you might be. The Pharisees were offended that Jesus would tolerate the sinners. More than tolerate, Jesus loved and welcomed the sinners. That for sure offended them.

This is not about how we are all sinners and are therefore equal in the eyes of God. It is that God does not care at all whether we are equal or not. God cares for us equally, whether we are sinners or not. It is not about our character and behavior. It is about God and about what God does.

Paul writes that we no longer regard things from a human point of view. To wish that people get what they deserve is a human point of view. But God does not share that view. God’s grace defies worldly expectations. God is not fair. God is not wise in the ways of the world. All persons call forth God’s divine favor. In this way (as in many) God is prodigal, extravagant, wasteful.

We are more stingy, we are less generous. We are humans. We regard things from a human point of view. We do not see things as God sees them. But we pray, sharing in Paul’s hope, that through Christ we can.

All by Myself

Text: Luke 13:31-35
Other texts: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18

There used to be a children’s book called All By Myself. It taught children how to manipulate the fasteners of everyday life. The pages inside contained zippers and buttons and snaps and laces. Children could play with these things and develop small motor skills. The point of the book, implied by the title, was to build confidence and independence. That is part of growing up. Eventually, sometimes to the dismay of parents, children can do more and more all by themselves, and need their parents less and less.

The readings today trace a long journey in time, from the infancy of Israel in the promise to Abram (who is later known as Abraham) to the glory that was Jerusalem at the time of Jesus. This is the temporal journey of the whole Bible. A people growing up under the watchful and loving eye of God, but who increasingly feel that they can do it all by themselves.

The story starts with just one family: Abram and Sarai (soon to be called Sarah). They are childless, wanderers, old. They earlier had been told, as this episode in Genesis begins, that they would be the start of a great family that would in turn become a great and prosperous nation. “I will make you into a great nation, and I will bless you,” God had said, but things have not worked out. Abram is skeptical, to say the least. Nonetheless, God reassures Abram. He believed, it says. This shows that one can be skeptical about something and believe the same something as the same time.

The relationship between God and Abram was exactly the relationship between God and Israel. It was personal and intimate, one on one. The nation at this time existed only in this one person. God speaks to Abram. Abram speaks back.

God makes a promise. The one person (or the two: Abram and Sarai), will be many. Abram is skeptical because he has been disappointed in the past. God’s promise has so far been just words. But Abram is faithful because in the end he trusts in the sovereignty of God. God is the creator and ruler of the universe. Humans are creatures. God makes promises and fulfills them. Abram trusts that God’s word is good.

And so it turns out to be. Fast forward to the time of Jesus. Israel is a nation, and has been great. The descendants of Abraham and Sarah have populated the land. The story has had its ups and downs, but now Jerusalem, the center of political and religious life, is a great city. A center of commerce, religion, and politics. Jerusalem was like a cross between DC and New York. Diverse, full of foreign business people, merchants, and travelers. Plus leaders of the state and religious institutions (which at the time were not two different things).

No longer was it God and just one fledgling family. No longer did God and Israel speak one to one. There were many children. They were no longer wanderers. They had homes and institutions and bureaucrats and officials and armies. They were numerous and vital and independent. They could do things all by themselves.

But as a result, where Abram was humble and thankful, they were proud. In some ways, they had forgotten God in all but name. Or better to say: they had begun to forget God’s sovereignty. Humans had usurped some of it for themselves. They believed in themselves more than in God.

This had happened before. (And clearly still happens.) The history of Israel by then covered many centuries. During that time, God had sent prophets to the people, reminding them of God’s commandments and reminding them that they were God’s creation. Yet the prophets were rarely well-received. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” says Jesus, “the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it.”

Including, it will turn out, Jesus himself. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord”—Jesus quotes Psalm 117. The people hear Jesus. They see what is going on in the city. Does Jesus speak for God or for someone, something else? They are not asking so much whether Jesus is the one, the new king, the messiah. Instead, they want to know: is this man, this Jesus, is he blessed or is he not? Is God speaking to us through Jesus? Can we trust him to guide us?

Like other prophets, Jesus preaches and acts against the prevailing systems of power that forget God. Jesus proclaims good news to the poor and freedom for prisoners, as we heard him a couple of weeks ago. He will fill the stomachs of the hungry and send the rich away empty. He tells us, in Luke, not to judge others, not to charge interest on loans, to give whenever and for whatever we are asked. To check for the log in our own eyes before we go condemning the sliver in our neighbor’s.

If you acknowledge that Jesus is blessed, speaking for God—is God—then you must accept that these are God’s words. If you accept these are God’s words, and you ignore them anyway, you debate God’s sovereignty. As Jerusalem did, and as we often do today.

There is pity and compassion in Jesus’ wish to be as a hen gathering up her chicks. Young animals seek their mother for protection and comfort, and then march out into the world in confidence, knowing that they can always return. The God who speaks to Abram sends him out confident that God is with him. But the Jesus who speaks to Jerusalem as if they were chicks is full of sadness because they seem to have no need for God.

Jerusalem, having a difficult adolescence, has forgotten that it owes its existence to a gift from God. The whole of Israel came as a gift from God. Starting with God’s promise to Abram, God makes agreements, with Israel. “I am the Lord who brought you out of [your birthplace] to give you this land to possess.” You are my people, says God repeatedly. This is your land that I give to you and that I bless for your use. Over and over in this passage the word is repeated: give, gift. “On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying ‘to your descendants I give this land.’” And the land God is talking about is the land in which Jerusalem sits. For which they are reminded to be grateful.

It is dangerous to lose one’s gratitude. It makes you think that what you have is a result of your own efforts, that you have done it all by yourself, and that you deserve what you have because you are able and righteous. And it makes you lose your respect for forces that are way beyond your control (which are most of them). It makes you forget to be humble, which is a risk; and in doing so, in being proud of yourself, it makes it hard to remember God.

But Jesus’ sadness does not come from thinking that the people are arrogant. It comes because he knows that a life deprived of gratitude is a life of fear and deep loneliness. Imagine the chicks without a hen.

Jesus reminds Jerusalem and reminds us that we are neither self-created. Nor are we adrift. We did not do this all by ourselves. Nor are we in this all by ourselves. We are creatures of a God who remains by our side. Sending us out, welcoming us back. We are not alone.

A Likely Story

Text: Luke 4:1-13

We are forgetful and easily distracted creatures. For this reason, we tell ourselves stories. Old family stories. Stories about growing up, falling in and out of love. About school and career. We tell stories around the dinner table, passing them on from one generation to the next. We tell them in courtship. These stories remind us who we are. We need these daily reminders so that we remain complete.

We tell stories in church through scripture, through the Bible. These stories remind us who we are with God. That we are creations of God, children of God, and God’s people, and brother and sister of God in Jesus. Oddly enough, we find this big story about us and God easy to forget.

We are not the first to do this. People in the Bible have to tell each other the story of God all the time. In the first reading today, from Deuteronomy, the people are reminded to give back to God the first part of what has been given to them. As they do so, and by way of explaining why they do so, they retell the central story of how God freed them—not they, themselves, but their ancestors—how God freed them from Egypt and led them into a land of their own where they now live.

The apostle Paul weaves into this story of the Exodus the story of Jesus Christ. “There is no distinction between Jew and Greek,” Paul writes. Gentiles, pagans, become, through God’s gracious invitation, part of the story, and the whole story becomes for all of us. The season of Lent is a time to reflect on whether we feel like we fit into this big story, whether we feel like it really is our story, and if so, finding a way of being, a way of living, that makes sense in light of this story.

Part of our story—the story of Christians—is the story of Jesus as told by the Gospel writers. Today we hear from Luke about the very beginning of the public life of Jesus. Though oddly in this story there are no witnesses, so it is a private story of Jesus’ which we are privileged to observe.

If you look in your Bibles you’ll see that these verses in Luke are labeled “The Temptation of Jesus.” As you know, these labels are not part of the Bible but are added by the modern editors for our guidance. Sometimes they are imperfect guides, as in this case. Jesus is not tempted as someone on a diet might be to have one of Dan Wyneken’s killer brownies at coffee hour. It is not like Jesus is longing for something wicked that he can and should not have. For this reason, some Bibles call this “The Test of Jesus.” But it might be better to think of these temptations or tests by the devil as offers. The devil wishes to seduce Jesus into doing things which seem, on the face of it, to be well-aligned with Jesus’ ministry.

People go hungry. They pray for daily bread. It would be great if Jesus could turn stones, of which there are many, into bread, of which there is too little.

People suffer from injustice. They pray for an end to oppression and exploitation at the hands of indifferent or brutal political leaders. It would be great if Jesus could claim his authority over all the kingdoms so that they would become as God’s kingdom.

People are defrauded by their spiritual leaders. They pray for good and faithful teachers. It would be great if Jesus could restore truth and compassion in those who guide us.

The devil’s offer is simple and reasonable. Sensible. At the most, it requires a little compromise. When Jesus turns down the offer, therefore, he does not argue it on its merits. He does not discuss the wisdom of turning some stones into bread, or the efficacy of taking over all the nations. He instead quotes and interprets scripture. He relies on the story of God and people. He remains true to the story. The devil’s offer is a perversion of it.

Aligning oneself with the story of God and people is a kind of obedience. The test is not whether Jesus will seize power but rather whether the devil can convince him to violate the story and thus destroy it. There is much at stake here.

Obedience is a foreign-sounding word to most of us. But the obedience of Jesus here is not about domination and acquiescence. It is not about being lawful. It is not about being a good person. It is about embracing the story of God as we understand it and about not being so pleased about writing our own.

We who follow Christ have made a decision to go along with the story we have inherited. To be obedient. That is one of the things we mean when we say we believe the story. We agree that we can and will make the story our own. That we trust that it can be a pretty good guide for us. This does not mean, of course, that we are always able to follow the guidance.

Sometimes the offers of the devil are convincing. We cause suffering, or let people suffer because of our inaction, for example. We torture, or wage war. We consider our claims superior to others. In cases like these, then, we tell ourselves another, alternative, story. A story which is often more compelling and convincing; that is why we go ahead. Expediency, safety, lesser evils, practicality. Stories like these. But these are not the same story as that of a loving God revealed in good creation and through Jesus Christ. They do not align with that story.

There are lots of reasons why we might not do what God asks of us. Are they good reasons? Sometimes they seem to be; sometimes we know they are not. We are given a chance to obey God and to follow Jesus’ teachings or not to. It is not easy to do that—to follow Jesus—it is not always safe to do that, it is not always sensible to do that. We ask ourselves: is it worth it? If I do what I understand Jesus is asking me to do, will the world be better? Will the kingdom of God be more likely? Do I believe what I understand God to be saying to me?

The story of God and people is good news. God makes, forgives, provides for, and loves us. And even lives with us. But for some reason that does not completely make it appealing.

Partly that is because God asks us to do also what God has already done for us: be compassionate, generous, forgiving. Not easy. Partly because we are fearful. Partly because it seems so outrageous that God might love all of us and that we are called to do the same.

So, we are tempted to ignore the story. Make it something for other people in a different time or under different circumstances. Or to discount it, to understand both its promise and its demands more softly.

In the time of Lent, especially, we take it upon ourselves to reflect critically on the story that we, humanity on this earth, and that we, each human, are living and how it fits story of God that we know. To consider how the two stories match up. To ask ourselves: Who are we? How are we doing?

What a Stupid Post

Text: 1 Corinthians 13:1-13

It turns out that impolite comments left on blog posts substantially affect the way people judge the authenticity of the posts and how much they like the author. Maybe this does not surprise you. People’s opinions, even those of strangers, seem to matter to us. Words can cause harm. What is surprising is the way the comments affect readers’ perceptions. Comments that include cursing, insults, and angry talk for some readers diminish the value of the post. But the same comments for other readers enhance its value. In other words, rude comments polarize the audience and create or widen division within the community. This might remind you of the U.S. Congress or the nations of the world.

When Paul writes his first letter to the church at Corinth, he writes to a divided community. We have talked about this over the last few Sundays as we have read from this letter. The whole letter, and especially the verses we’ve heard, are an attempt by Paul to bring some sense and unity to the church. So we heard Paul discuss the variety of gifts in the church, none greater than another. And then discuss the variety of people in the church, none less valuable than another. In both cases, people were thinking about themselves first, and about others second, or not a all. They were trumpeting their own worth and denying the worth of others. Paul tells them to stop that. And now, in the verses for today, Paul reminds them of why they should do what he says, and why they can.

These verses talk about love. Therefore the are often used in weddings. They are not bad for that purpose, because the virtues they present are good ones to remember as you get married. But as I suspect you know, Paul is not talking about romance and kisses, or even about friendship. It is not about emotion. The word he uses is translated in the King James Version as “charity.” This is misleading for us, too, because these days it connotes something like a handout, or philanthropy. That’s not what Paul is saying, either. Perhaps a better translation would be respect, or empathy. Or a realization of the human-ness of the other person. It is what we do because we are all equally children of God. He is not asking the nose-in-the air folks at Corinth to like the other people nor to befriend them. But they must love one another.

There are two ways—at least—to read these words of Paul. You might read them as complaint or judgment—or as law, as Lutherans would say. Read them as if Paul were angry, taking the Corinthians to task. You folks are messed up, Paul says in this interpretation. There is another way to behave. A most excellent way, as it says. Love is patient: You are supposed to be patient. But you are quick to anger instead. Love is generous: You are supposed to be generous, but you are greedy instead. You are supposed to be humble, but you are arrogant instead.

You have no right to be so, and Paul reels off a list of increasing skills and powers: speaking in tongues, prophecy, understanding and knowledge, great faith, even self-sacrifice. There is nothing we are, that we have, or that we do that justifies not loving our neighbor.

Or you could read what Paul writes as invitation—or as gospel, good news, as we’d say. Read them as if Paul were encouraging the people to imagine a new way of being with one another. I can show you a most excellent way to behave, with great consequences for you and the world. And here is the way: Be patient, be kind, be humble, be truthful. Your gifts—good speech, faith, knowledge—are great, but in the end lead to nothing. They do not fulfill you. They do not profit you. They do not define you. Without love for others, they are nothing. Without love, we do not flourish.

Paul reveals an idea here, a vision of what could be. This is a poem. It describes how things are and tries to create for us an image of a future. It is specific and concrete.

It is a recipe. To make a new world, do this. There is a most excellent way. Which means more literally: there is a path that is beyond comparison. Here is the big picture: love one another as Jesus has loved you. Here are the details: be kind, generous, patient, courteous.

This seems stupidly simple until you remember that this means more than be kind to the people you like, more than be polite to your friends even when they are being jerks. It means being kind to everyone, whether you like them or not, whether they like you or not, whether they will thank you for it or not. If means being patient and generous to people who are not patient and generous back and never will be, even people who harm you. Even your enemies.

It means going beyond the Golden Rule. To not insist on your own way, as Paul says, no matter how reasonable it is. To not seek yourself, it means more exactly. To not have you be the intended destination for your actions. No matter if you are right. No matter if you think yourself to hold the morally superior position. It means to think of others before you think of yourself. To be as gracious to one another as God has been to us.

We see only dimly (through a glass darkly, the King James says more poetically). What is it that we see darkly, dimly? We see ourselves. We are an enigma. We do not see one another very clearly. From that ignorance, we conclude (as the Corinthians did) that we are better somehow than those vague others. We compare our inside knowledge of ourselves with our outside observations of others, and conclude that those others are fundamentally different from us.

But they—we—are not. Our understanding of one another is incomplete, partial, as Paul says. We do not know each other, nor are we well-known by each other. When we act in love, we begin to see each other person as God sees us. Even those we have found to be intolerable. We begin to know each other as we have been known, fully, as God knows us.

Jesus tells his disciples, as we will hear in a few weeks on Maundy Thursday: Love one another as I have loved you. But he does not tell them how. The Corinthians need—as we do—more practical advice. These verses in Paul’s letter to the people in the church of Corinth are not some treatise on the nature of love. Not: this is what love is and does. And they are not a judgment about what good lovers we are. They are techniques that show us how to do what Jesus commands. This is how to love one another.

Why should the Corinthians do what Paul tells them to? Why should we? We do it because we do not like living in a broken and broken-apart world. And because we are convinced that it is not inevitable that the world be that way. Jesus tells us: Love one another as I have loved you. By this, everyone will know you are my followers.

We try to love one another because we are convinced that Jesus is right: that this will fix the world. Or maybe we are not so convinced. In that case, we try to love one another just because we are followers of Jesus. And that’s what followers do: they listen to the teachings and commands of their leader and try to obey them.

The insulting comments on the blog posts polarize people because they enact a fiction: that we are not one community. They reinforce a myth: That we are not similar children of God.

Tossing insults—or worse—at other people across the aisle or across the world is clearly not working. We who follow Jesus have been shown a vision, and we have been issued an invitation: There is a more excellent way.